This was no
suitable moment for dwelling upon the defects and weaknesses. Wogan told
her the story of the campaign in Scotland, of the year's residence in
Avignon. He spoke most burningly. A girl would no doubt like to hear of
her love's achievements; and if James Stuart had not so many to his name
as a man could wish, that was merely because chance had served him ill.
So a fair tale was told, not to be found in any history book, of a
night attack in Scotland and how the Chevalier de St. George, surprised
and already to all purposes a prisoner, forced a way alone through nine
grenadiers with loaded muskets and escaped over the roof-tops. It was a
good breathless story as he told it, and he had just come to an end of
it when the carriage drove through the village of Wellishmile and
stopped at the posting-house. Wogan opened the door and shook Gaydon by
the shoulder.
"Let us try if we can get stronger horses here," said he, and he got
out. Gaydon woke up with surprising alacrity.
"I must have fallen asleep," said he. "I beseech your Highness's
forgiveness; I have slept this long while.
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